


[fic] they don't make morning after pills for this

by youcallitwinter



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcallitwinter/pseuds/youcallitwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You could let me love you sometimes, you know, Veronica." | The summer of forgetting.<br/>[Post 2x22] [Veronica; Logan/Veronica, Wallace, Mac, Cassidy] [oneshot]</p>
            </blockquote>





	[fic] they don't make morning after pills for this

**Author's Note:**

> Veronica, post 2.22, _all over the place._
> 
>  
> 
>  **they don't make morning after pills for this.**  
>  _veronica mars | veronica; veronica/logan, wallace, cassidy, mac | hard r |_  
>  _post season 2 | warning: mentions of rape, sex, language. | ~3700_  
>  The summer of forgetting.

 

 Prompt:  _We Are Emergencies_ by Buddy Wakefield. It's gorgeously Veronica/Logan in my opinion.

 

   

   

 

 

 

 

The summer is hot, sticky, and her clothes cling to her, glued in an uncomfortable film of sweat and dust. She feels dirty, tired, used, almost all the time.

And she thinks: this is good.

 

  

 -

  

 

"You could let me love you sometimes, you know, Veronica" Logan says sardonically, a careless hand in his pockets, leaning against the wall like he invented it. He is bare-chested and most of the time she wants him so much, the panic makes the pulse at the base of her throat pound like her heart has permanently taken residence there. _T_ _he Tell-Tale Heart._  It was a horror story, she remembers.

"We just had sex," she points out, sitting on the edge of his bed, as she ties her hair back with a clip, the sweat making the strands stick to the back of her neck, trickling into the back of her shirt. "We haven't stepped out of your room in hours."

He pushes himself off the wall, and walks slowly towards her, measured, deliberate, his gaze serious, and suddenly she finds she can't meet his eyes. "Please," his voice is quiet, almost heartbreakingly gentle; it breaks the heart at the base of her throat, cutting off her air supply, and for a moment she can't breathe. "Let me love you."

"I'm trying," she says to the floor, the colors of the carpet threads blend into each other. She doesn't have names for more than half of them.

 

 

-

  

 

Mac's way of not dealing involves hours and hours in front of the computer creating complex codes, till her eyes are bloodshot and Veronica thinks she may have discovered the cure for cancer and written the entire works of Shakespeare thrice over.

"You could stop," she says.

"I could," Mac replies agreeably. But she doesn't. So that is another answer.

Together they make a website with a running list for rating sexual conquests, populated with names from the Yearbook, and then send it to all the college-bound former seniors of Neptune High. Or rather, Mac makes the list and Veronica keeps up a witty monologue as it is made, which is just as important, she thinks. The catch is that when the names are filled in, the list is automatically forwarded to everyone rated. It feels cathartic to be able to single-handedly break up most of their graduating class. Lesson Number One of the Real World: sorry, you're screwed, folks.

She gets rated about seven times from guys she's never even heard of, and two she knows only by name. It's a high rating from three, a medium from two, and a low rating from four and it makes her feel irrationally annoyed. There can't be people who think she sucks at fake-sex. There can't be people who've fantasied about her in the kind of way where she's been terrible at sex in their fantasies. That's insane. She morbidly waits for a notification from Logan's account, but it never comes.

When he finally checks his email, she's sitting by him, her hand in a bowl of popcorn. She looks up at his exclamation.

"What the  _fuck_?"

Her heart drops as she looks at the never-ending column of unread messages from their website; it seems to scroll on and on and—

"It's a thing," she says, casually, even though she's not, she's totally not. "You know. Rating sexual partners and stuff. Bored, rich Neptune, high-school, teen things. You're pretty popular then, huh?"

He runs his fingers through his hair. "So let me take a  _wild_  guess; this was you and Old MacDonald."

"No," she says, quickly, but he's crossing his arms and it's kind of pointless. "I mean, yes. But, whatever."

He lets out a short laugh, the kind where he's not amused at all. "You must be really bored then, Veronica. Did the Camelot take out a restraining order or something?"

"It was just something to do," she mutters.

She looks back at his screen, voice small, which sucks, this is not how she wants to play this. "So, have you slept with all of these girls?"

He's still staring at her, and she thinks she should be able to look up, she's not the one in the wrong here. He's not either, she supposes, but that's never mattered before. "No." He does not elaborate.

"I have to go," she's said it before she's thought it out, but as she says it, she knows it's true. She gets up from the couch. The fact is, she's been spending too much time here. With him. Neglecting all the piling cases. That needs to change back to what it used to be. It's kind of terrifying she hadn't realized it had changed at all.

"Wait," he pulls her down, without much effort, and she falls ungracefully, sinking in the depths of the leather. "Did you make this so you'd have an excuse to break up with me?"

That is so far off the left field, it knocks the wind out of her. " _W_ _hat?"_

"Did you," he begins again, abruptly. His voice is hard, she registers with surprise, arms gripping the sides of the couch tightly, the same side of the couch she'd gripped when she'd been- he's  _angry_ , "make this because you're  _bored_ and I haven't done anything lately that would warrant a break-up so you decided to just create a reason instead for convenience? Because this would fall into some sub-category of entrapment, Veronica Mars, Private Dick Extraordinaire. I've spent enough time with you to know that."

"That isn't how entrapment is defined," she says automatically, before the anger flares up inside her as well, because what the hell? "And youarrogant  _bastard_ , this had  _nothing_  to do with you. Did it ever occur to you that it was just  _something to do._ To help Mac deal, because the guy she'd almost been in love with jumped off the fucking  _roof_ of the building she was going to have her first time with him in and left her naked on the bedroom floor?"

And suddenly it hits her. "Do  _you_ want to break up? Is this some sort of reverse psychology technique where you get to be the good guy and also be free of the unfortunate monogamous summer situation keeping you from the exponential growth of that list?" She points to his screen.

"What," he looks at her like she's started singing showtunes with Bambi, " _no_."

"Because," she says, and he started this, he totally started this, "if that's what this is, then just say it. Okay.  _Just_   _say it._ "

Logan deflates suddenly, she can almost see the anger drain out, leaving behind something close to exhaustion in its wake. He reaches out a hand to rub tiredly against his jaw. He hasn't shaved today, and he's starting to get a stubble. She remembers how it feels against her skin. The fact that they're fighting, and she's still mostly thinking of getting him to take his clothes off, makes her flush with anger and embarrassment. "You know I don't."

"I have to go," she says, again, "I just- have to."

He opens his mouth to say something before closing it again, "will you be back?" his voice is distant, but she can hear the layer underneath, the desperate need to know. He's always waiting for her to leave, she realizes, with a marked lack of surprise. Leave and not come back. Like her mother.

She thinks of saying something cheesy like  _always_ , but she's stood far too many times in front of motel windows and watched forever crumble into nothing, so maybe it's best to save the forevers for something concrete. Like jumping off a roof. "Yes."

 

  

-

 

  

She goes to the funeral even though no one asks her to.

The coffin is plain black. Not ebony. Some kind of painted wood. She can't see him; not just because she's standing right at the back, but because it's closed. But she remembers the sound he'd made as he hit anyway. The car, the ground, she can't remember exactly. Maybe there is nothing left to see. Just parts of him that don't add up to a whole; an arm, a torso, a penis. Dried blood caking the inside of white linen or silk or whatever it is that the 09ers use to line the inside of their coffins. That's a market survey worth carrying out.

Dick is sitting in front, staring blankly at a point behind the preacher's head in the distance. She looks too, but she can't see anything. Logan is beside him, dark, beautiful. Logan has attended far too many funerals, she knows. The thought makes her chest ache. 

Dick's bleach-blond hair is much too long, falling over his eyes, and he'll have to spend the rest of the summer at the beach, if he wants his tan back, she decides. He's pale. Like a ghost. Like he'd jumped too that night, with Beaver, and come back transparent.

She looks down at her hand, she can see a criss-cross of blue and green beneath her skin. And when she pinches her arm, red blossoms in the spot, battling for dominance with the fast-approaching purple. Tomorrow it will be yellow. She is not a ghost.

"His name was Cassidy," she whispers to the tall man in a suit next to her, who looks down at her once, his face, contorted in a parody of fake grief, giving way to mild curiosity, then looks away. She wonders who the man is, if he knew Beav- Cassidy at all. If he ever cheated on his wife in the Camelot with his young secretary. Whether his wife will ever come to her and ask her for the money-shot, all the while secretly hoping there won't be any. There can't be any because it's the man _she_ loves and her love story should be different. But there always are. It's the gospel truth in the business. Which is why the holy grail of money shots is no money shot.

"Here's my card," she whispers again, handing it to him. Maybe his wife will cheat on him with her secretary instead. He looks at the card, and then at her like she's something disgusting, trying to market herself at a funeral. He doesn't know that she'd have shot the guy herself, given half the chance. Maybe he would have made a better corpse then, just a bullet hole somewhere in his body, and the quiet tragedy of his boyish face. It wouldn't have been so messy. Maybe then they wouldn't have to keep the coffin closed.

When they start to lower the box to the ground, she walks away, Dick Senior wasn't there, she registers dimly. He's still running. She wonders if Bea- Cassidy had managed to kill her on top of the roof of the Neptune Grand, if her mother would've come for the funeral.

Maybe not, she decides.

 

  

-

 

 

"Do you think he came inside me?"

"Hmm," Logan is concentrating on his video game with the same fierce intensity that he does on her. She watches him blow something up on the screen. He had once taken a gun out of her hands. She thinks she can contribute to those research studies on whether video game culture is making the youth of today more violent. She has never played a violent video game. She has held a gun with intent to kill, though.

"Be- Cassidy," she tries again. "Do you think he came inside me?"

Logan's hands still, and she is oddly disappointed. She likes his hands moving. On screen, his avatar crashes. The screen is filled with a digitized red. That is not blood. She has bled enough to know the difference. She'd found dried blood on the inside of her thighs that night. When Duncan found her later, she must have already bled out her innocence. A certainty in something. By the time Logan found her, she probably had nothing left to give. He doesn't seem to understand that.

He turns to look at her, eyes carefully shuttered. "Veronica."

She wonders if Cassidy is still inside her somewhere. Coating her organs in the white of his cum. If she is the only living person in the world to still carry a bit of him inside herself. Whether her body throws pieces of him out with the blood each month. Rejects him, where she hadn't been given a chance to. She wonders if her body is all she'll ever really be.

"Can you come inside me?" She asks. Suddenly, this is important. "I'm on the pill. It's for hormonal imbalance or something, but, yeah, I'm on it. I mean, guys love that no-condom thing, right?" His silence makes her nervous for some reason. "Like, it enhances the experience? That's what all the magazines say," she ends, lamely.

He's looking at her neutrally, as if assessing her. "No."

She nods. She'd expected this. "Okay," she says. She vaguely realizes she's not sitting anymore and it's only when she's stepped over her bra and she's sliding her cotton panties down her legs that she knows what she's doing. He's still looking at her from his place on the couch, holding himself unnaturally stiff. As if he can't figure out if this is a fight. It's not, she wants to tell him, they're not fighting.

She sit on the couch beside him, and spreads her legs. That would be at least three circles more on the list Mac had made once, she thinks. When he turns around, his gaze firmly on her face, she feels naked. She  _is_ naked, she knows, but in this moment she feels it.

"Could you," she tries to think of a way to phrase it. Not crudely. She's embarrassed at the idea of talking dirty in front of Logan. He's so good at it.  _Cunt_  and  _clit_ and  _cock_ and  _sofuckingwetjesus_. The words he says without blinking, while she can barely think them in her head without turning red. "Could you get him out," she manages, "of me."

She watches him swipe his tongue across soft, dry, chapped lips. When his eyes fall to the shadow between her thighs, she can feel her muscles clench. He understands what she's asking for. She'd known he would.

For a moment she thinks he's going to refuse. Perhaps pick up the controller and turn back to the screen, and she's going to be left here, open and completely stripped. And then, even when she's wearing clothes, she's going to be naked always, exposed always, vulnerable always.

Instead, he sighs, tiredly. But he drops to his knees anyway, between her open legs, his head pushing forward, hair brushing against her thigh, impossibly soft, and she grips the arms, possibly ruining the expensive, plush material with her fingernails. For once he does not fill the long silence with run-on sentences and dirty words, even though she would like for him to, so her moans don't sound quite so loud, so obscene in the huge room. She's echoing.

She doesn't say his name when she comes. She doesn't want it repeated back to her.

Logan raises his head to look at her, his mouth still shiny, wet with her. Inexplicably, she's mortified by the physical evidence of what she'd asked him to do so openly, without shame. But when she picks up a napkin from the side-table to wipe herself off him, he pulls his head back so she can't reach. She tries to remember if he has ever asked her if she loves him. She can't remember, so he can't have. She thinks she'd remember something like that.

"Do you feel clean?" He asks. It's a strange question.

She thinks about it for a moment, orgasmic lethargy setting in her bones till she wants to melt and be refrozen again into something real. Logan also has B- Cassidy inside him now. "I don't know," she replies, honestly.

He nods, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Okay," he says.

"Okay," she echoes. The room is silent this time.

 

  

-

  

 

She's afraid of many things. Spiders. Her dad dying. Letting Logan love her. Becoming her mother. The guy she sees on the streets sometimes who grins lasciviously at her with yellowed teeth and a rotting tongue. Never being able to let Logan love her. Being average in the Criminology class she's taken up at Hearst. Failing her PI exam. Getting a zit right where it's most visible.

"It's a truth universally acknowledged that nothing up to any good needs eight legs, Vee." Wallace consoles her. It is an admission on his behalf, and she is grateful. "It's only right, being afraid of spiders."

Vee, she thinks, Vee for Weevil.

"Did you just make a Jane Austen reference, Wallace?" She asks, instead, absently. The magazine is smooth under her fingers.

She looks up to see him looking sheepish, ball in hand. " _Bridget Jones's Diary_ , actually." He says, "Jackie made me watch it once. _Both_ of them. In  _succession._ "

His expression is tortured, and she knows it has more to do with the  _J_ word than Colin Firth and Hugh Grant fighting by the roadside, as much as he tries to pretend otherwise. So she changes the subject.

"But then, like, what about centipedes," she flips another page of Alicia's  _Cosmo_ , sprawled across his bed, with her shirt hitching up just a little bit. She should pull it down, but she feels far too lazy to bother.  _How To Know He's Just Not That Into You_. Flip.  _Be The You You Didn't Know You Could Be._ Flip.  _10 Ways to Drive Him Wild In Bed_. It's three pages long. Maybe she'll cut that out. She could ask Wallace for scissors, but then he'll look at the page and grimace in that way that he has whenever he is inadvertently reminded that she and Logan fuck.

They  _fuck_ , she turns the word around in her mind, while  _Cosmo_  tells her in glossy black-and-white that lovemaking is best when He is allowed free reign over His desires and She does not shy away from acknowledging Hers— she likes the word, she decides. Fuck. A figure of disappointment. Fuck. An insult. Fuck. An exclamation. Fuck. An unnecessary word to fill in spaces. Fuck. Have sex. Fuck. The word he uses most when he's about to come, his gaze fever-bright, hand gripping her hair too tightly, mouth slanted over hers, holding her in that inexplicable pull he has, almost dangerous, her name attached like  _fuckveronicathisisjust veronicayouresofucking ineverwanttostopfuckingyouveronica_. 

Cassidy did the same thing to her that Logan does, but the word is different. The only similarity is the -ed if she uses 'raped' and 'fucked'. But if she uses the source words, they don't share a single letter. She likes language.

"Too much of a good thing," Wallace tells her sagely. He is talking about the centipede.

She thinks of the time she'd flashed him to increase his 'naughty' quotient and probably filled in a point for herself on the list. She idly wonders how many circles she'd have to darken in now, with everything Logan's done to her in the long evenings in his hotel room, with everything she's done to him. Probably twenty seven more. The thought makes her feel vaguely dirty.

"But how much is too much?" Dhe wonders out loud. The man pictured in the magazine is sculpted, beautifully naked, but he doesn't arouse her as much as the mere sight of Logan's bare arms does. She's turning into a slut. Sometimes when he lifts something heavy and the muscles in his arms contract, she nearly creams herself from just that. She hopes to god he doesn't know. She can imagine his smirk, wide and cocky. Her hand itches to slap it off already.

Wallace is dribbling his basketball around the bed, although Veronica knows for a fact his mom told him not to, because it will disturb the neighbors. Alicia only wants to fit in. She can sympathize with that. "Why don't you take up  _Philosophy 101_ as an extra credit course and find out?"

 

 

-

 

  

She has this dream. It's a sort of memory in dream-logic. Sometimes Cassidy jumps. Sometimes she shoots him. Sometimes Logan jumps. Sometimes she jumps. 

Sometime she has sex with Logan on the roof while Cassidy lies splattered across the pavement.

Sometimes she kisses Beaver and he smiles, half-shy, half-pleased, forever in the shadow of his big brother and she says  _I know the feeling_ and thinks of Lilly. She hasn't thought of Lilly in very long and it feels a little like betrayal to think of her in this way after so long. But she and Beaver sit in companionable silence, and she forgets again.

Sometimes there is no one on the roof but her, and she sits alone on the edge and watches the stars glow brightly, brighter and brighter and brighter, till one of them falls, somewhere far away, and she gets up to go home.

The actual waking-world is more tiring than she remembers. She doesn't understand how she used to scale the walls and take pictures, sitting for hours in uncomfortable positions. It makes her cramp up now, her stomach churning, head aching with the heat. It's too hot.

She wants to be in Logan's room at the Grand, ordering room service. She's getting spoiled. Too used to the good life. Too used to his arm wrapped around her and the perfectly maintained temperature of his bedroom. Wallace grins and tells her,  _you're only human, Veronica Mars._ Mac grins too, but she doesn't say anything. She has no third friend to go to for an opinion.

She is not fast enough somehow either, and when the guy she's been tailing catches her and grips her hard enough to rattle her teeth, she is more resigned than afraid. He slaps her and it stings. She falls down into the mud, the summer rain making it difficult to get a grip, her jeans splattered with brown. Her bag falls down beside her and when he comes after her with strong hands, she is ready, taser in hand. He yells and falls back and she tasers him again just for the heck of it, before she uses the momentum, the adrenalin rush, and the time, to make a break for it.

She calls Lamb on the way, gives the information in shorthand, and thinks of turning home, but doesn't. And thinks that maybe she wasn't going to from the beginning.

She's shivering when Logan opens the door. He stares at her blankly for a moment, and then she watches him instead, as his gaze moves away from her eyes, examining her body; fear, anger, dread, panic, alarm flitting across his face. He's so readable, so open, always, it's a little bit sad. He reaches out a hand to touch her and then pulls it back, as if he knows he can't touch her without hurting somehow. She wants to tell him it's okay, she doesn't mind.

She can feel her head pounding where she'd been hit by the man's closed fist. The cold seeps into her skin, mingling with the residue of the summer heat and settling at the base of her spine somewhere. She can see the red crusting over on her arms under the trails of mud, her hair hanging in dirty strands around her face, and she knows her face is discolored too. Tomorrow she will be yellow and purple all over. She is not transparent. She is not a ghost. She was raped by a boy long dead. Sometimes, Logan turns her on just by lifting heavy things. She didn't jump. She didn't pull the trigger.

And she says: "you can love me if you want."


End file.
